Do you ever find yourself getting angry at really, really stupid things? Yeah, me neither. But if I wasn’t so calm and even-keeled all the time (cough!) and DID let myself get mad at anything, it wouldn’t be jerk-ass politicians or anti-vaxxers, it’d probably just be stuff like this:
- Side-by-side cabinet doors that don’t align properly. I think it’s due to house-settling, but it’s also possible we live right on top of a fault line. I know our crawl space is pretty deep…
- The possum that just moved into the neighborhood and likes to walk on our fence. Thanks to our beagle’s twilight “aroooooo”-ing, everyone knows about the possum from here to the next county over.
- Things I’ve misplaced and searched for and still can’t find.
Sinuses. I’ve had it with mine and would like them removed, thank you.
- Over-enthusiastic parents that sit next to me for youth sports. The other day the score was something like 54-7, and some dork kept saying to other parents of the loser team, “Well, they got heart! You can’t deny they got heart!” If I’d known whose kid belonged to them, I’d have wanted to yell out, “Hey YOU. Your dad thinks you suck and you do! And bee-tee-dubs, your jersey’s tucked into your underwear.”
- Also sports-related: I don’t know the first thing about coaching a basketball team, but somewhere in the rec league coaches’ manual there are apparently instructions to leave rebounds to the professionals. Here’s my play-by-play of every single game so far: A kid tries to make a basket and EVERY OTHER KID ON THE COURT stops to see if it goes in (it doesn’t), and then a kid from the opposing team catches it and dribbles down the court. Repeat 7,398 times. Hear Jen scream. I know, rec league players are rec league players because they aren’t good enough to play in a real league, but COME ON. Even *I* know that rebounds are… things… you should try to… get.
- Kanye West. Seriously, people need to stop letting him do stuff. He is not the artistic force he thinks he is.
- People who drive under the speed limit. People like my husband.
- People who don’t obey traffic signs. “No turn on red” means WAIT, idiot. (That is NOT my husband. He obeys all the traffic signs that don’t have big numbers on them.)
- Broken stuff in my house.
- Broken stuff in my body.
- Madonna, trying way too hard. Sure, she looks good for being 85 years old, but WOMAN, PUT ON SOME FRIGGIN’ PANTS.
- And speaking of trying way too hard… Lady Gaga. My tune changed—slightly—when I realized she can play the piano and therefore might actually have some talent, but generally speaking, she is close to Kardashian-level overrated. And while her performance on the Oscars last night wasn’t the worst thing ever, by far, if you ask me, she had no business imitating Dame Julie.
- Dog hair everywhere.
- Text-speak. Well, text-spell, anyway. C U L8R, really? Is it really that hard to spell out “see you later,” especially with auto-complete on your phone??? Answer: it isn’t. So stop. I can’t read it.
- People who don’t proofread their texts before tapping “send,” making them impossible to understand. (Although sometimes that ends up being hilariously make-fun-of-able, amirite, Theresa???)
- Emoticons that don’t exist: the rolling eyes, the puking face…
- Those blue-ish headlights. They make my eyes scream.
- Muscle cars. Also antique cars—I just don’t understand the point. When I was a kid my dad bought an old car, and I would watch him night after night in the garage, restoring it. I remember asking “why?” an awful lot.
- Bananas that turn brown the second you bring them home.
- Weeds. Not weed. Weeds. Especially when they really ugly-up the yard but it’s too muddy to go out and dig them up.
- How my kid thinks I’m the meanest mom EVER because I remind him to do two things every day: practice piano and brush his teeth. Even with my nagging, he still manages to get out of doing one or both. At least he doesn’t tuck his jersey into his underwear.
Anything driving you crazy? Feel free to share. This is a safe place.
